Women defy church with "Critical Mass'

Published 4:00 am, Sunday, April 11, 1999

1999-04-11 04:00:00 PDT OAKLAND -- OAKLAND - As homeless men doze in the cheerless park across from the Greyhound bus station, a small band of women bustle with brooms and bleach.

They sweep and disinfect the drab downtown spot, then add a jolt of color - a spray of banners, a parade of flags.

Two hours later, amid bleach fumes, freeway din and meandering pigeons, the women preside at a joyful religious ceremony. They call it a Roman Catholic Mass.

Others call it heretical.

For these women, in bold defiance of Catholic doctrine and tradition, are casting open closet doors. For the first time in the country, on a regular, public basis, they are holding prayer services that until now have been conducted in secret, within hundreds of homes but by invitation only, a sort of liturgical underground. Now in the Oakland park, in a service both spiritual and political, this cadre of women is denouncing the church's opposition to women's ordination and acting as their own priests, presiding in a role reserved for men.

"This is our church," says Victoria Rue, 52, one of the organizers of Critical Mass: Women Celebrating Eucharist. "We are not going to walk away and say OK, you guys take it. It is time, it is past time, for women to be ordained, for theology to reflect women's point of view."

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Risking excommunication, the women want to transform the very foundation of the Roman Catholic Church, to loosen what they consider a patriarchal throttlehold.

In the eyes of the church, however, the services do not constitute a legitimate Mass. Nor are religious leaders likely to sanction the women's dogged claims to the priesthood.

". . .the Church is bound to follow the example of the Lord, who chose only men as his apostles," American bishops said last year in a document on the subject. "The Sacrament of Holy Orders . . . has always been reserved to men . . . the Church considers this constant and universal tradition to be in accordance with God's plan and to constitute a permanent norm."

"Increasing polarization'&lt;

Women have performed increasingly important roles in the Catholic Church in recent years, becoming lectors, distributing communion and even running parishes due to a rising shortage of clergymen. According to published statistics, the number of priests nationally declined 19 percent between 1980 and 1998 when the Catholic population grew 24 percent.

While surveys show support for women's ordination among Catholics - 65 percent favored it, according to one 1997 study - while other mainline denominations have opened the priesthood to women, the Vatican steadfastly adheres to centuries-old dogma in barring women priests.

The church has no authority to ordain women, Pope John Paul II wrote in 1994. In his apostolic letter, he said that faithful Catholics are expected to "definitively" hold to this teaching.

"In the last 20 years, the ordinary people have moved to the left while the Vatican and the bishops and clergy have moved to the right," says Don Wedd, a coordinator of Chicago-based Call to Action, a national group of 19,000 lay and clergy members that lobbies for such changes as women's ordination and optional priestly celibacy.

"There is increasing polarization," he says. "The church is putting the cloak of infallibility on the subject of women's ordination and saying it cannot be done, whereas (some) biblical scholars and theologians say there is no biblical foundation (against) it."

"Changing things on our own'&lt;

Countless dispirited women have left the fold over the church's stance.

The renegades of Critical Mass, however, who consider themselves a throwback to early Christians who gathered in informal table fellowship, want to change today's Catholic Church not flee it.

"I'm Roman Catholic, it's in my DNA," says San Francisco psychotherapist Carolyn Kellogg, 62, a mother of five whose husband of 42 years, Ralph, sets up sound equipment for the group's unsanctioned services. "With all its faults, this is the one for me.

"Some people are supportive of us, others think we are going to hell in a hand basket. But I feel I am following the spirit, what my truth is."

To her and the other women of Critical Mass - it has about 20 core members, draws dozens more to its monthly services - the priesthood ban is a galling outrage, a symbol of inherent inequality.

"The church will say women have an important role but they can't be priests," says Karen Schwarz, a San Mateo psychologist with a theology degree who has advocated women's ordination for 22 years.

"It's like society saying women have no business being a doctor or lawyer but they can be nurses or teachers," she says. "Celibate men are shaping women's reality, keeping us from certain roles. We made a conscious decision to push the envelope. We are taking this public to challenge the institutional church, to tell it we are changing things on our own."

Cathedral without walls&lt;

Under a patch of blue amid a thick gray canopy of clouds, a tiny bell sounds.

"We gather on this Sunday to embark on a journey," says Victoria Rue, a theater director who holds a doctorate in theology. This day, she is a "priest" summoning her flock to prayer.

They pray: "We are seeking truth," says Kim Wayne, an Oakland businesswoman who is also celebrating the service. "There is a tremendous spiritual hunger in us to find what works." They light a fire: "We pray for illumination," Rue intones. "We ask you God that there be many cathedrals without walls like this one."

The open-air service, conducted amid smiles and song and feminized script, is performed on symbolic holy ground. Bishop Begin Plaza was formerly the site of the Cathedral of St. Francis de Sales, damaged in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake and later torn down.

At the holiest part of the Roman Catholic Mass, the women, draped in colorful streamers of fabric, "consecrate" the Eucharist, sharing bread and wine: "Eat this for this is my body," they say. "Drink this for this is my blood."

The church's discomfort&lt;

The service lasts one hour. When it is over, many women tarry, imbued with spirit and resolve.

"When the Vatican said women will never be ordained, it put me in conflict with church as I know it," says Mary Ann Bachmann, 44, a "cradle Catholic," mother of two, a regular churchgoer at her parish in Alameda where she's a volunteer on the liturgy committee.

"I almost feel like I have a foot in both doors. With Critical Mass, we are pushing a boundary that the church is uncomfortable with."

Last month, Oakland's bishop publicly responded to Critical Mass, saying the group reflects "the pain, the grief and the frustration of women who are angry with their church.

"To the extent that as a man I can feel their pain, I am sympathetic with it," wrote Bishop John S. Cummins, in the diocese's newspaper the Catholic Voice.

But Cummins said that such a group breeds disunity within the church, "at war with itself and the weapon is the Eucharist. It is wrong to use the Eucharist in this way. . . . Wrongs are not righted by bludgeoning each other with sacred things."

Rick Hinshaw, a spokesman for the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, a conservative New York-based organization, says the women's services are not considered legitimate Masses.

"And the Eucharist would certainly not be the real presence of the body and blood of Christ," he says.

"They are not empowered through priestly orders to consecrate the Eucharist."

Fearing Vatican's response&lt;

Even some inside the underground liturgy movement are uncomfortable with the brashness of Critical Mass.

"They feel that if it becomes more common then Rome will come down more on people. There is a lot of fear out there," says Andrea Johnson, national coordinator of the Women's Ordination Conference, a 24-year-old organization based in Washington, D.C.

More than 1,000 closeted groups of women around the country routinely hold liturgies in their homes - 10 times more than in 1992, says Sheila Dierks, author of

"WomenEucharist," a 1997 study of the underground movement.

"These are Catholic women who are still parish members, many work for the church, and they are struggling with being a Catholic woman in the '90s," says Dierks who is based in Colorado. "They are faithful daughters of the church. Yet they are in revolution. They want to pray together. They believe they can hold Mass and they believe it is really truly Mass."

Lurking for Critical Mass is the fear of excommunication. Since launching monthly services in January, several members have retreated for fear of retribution, organizers say.

"The church is trying to frighten these women," says Andrea Johnson. "The object is intimidation. For those who work within the church, it is a danger because they could lose their jobs or become isolated. It is troubling. But what is most troubling is the church is so closed. It feels like they are in a panic mode, battening down the hatches. To have women seems like a threat, it would turn things on its head."

For 45 years, Kaufer has been a Roman Catholic nun, working the last dozen years in the Bay Area. She is also, proudly, a member of Critical Mass.

"I know it is risky, I don't take the risk lightly, it is ecclesial disobedience," says Kaufer, 65. "If we continue, we could be excommunicated. . . . My (religious superior) said we would take it one step at a time. She's never faced this, she's never had a sister be excommunicated. But it's like what the gospel says when you put your hand to the plow - you don't turn back.

"I feel called to a priestly ministry. I'm sure in my lifetime I won't see this reform. But I feel if I don't stand up and speak the truth as I see it, there won't be any change for the children that follow us. If we don't take a stand and say no, we won't go away, we don't have a chance. This church is our home, our heritage."

defiance of the Roman Catholic Church at an outdoor gathering of Critical Mass in Oaklan&lt;

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